


Artists Inspiration

by Ishipbadasschicks (Awal)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Candles, F/F, Fluff, bitanic, f Jrot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:18:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Awal/pseuds/Ishipbadasschicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Draws Lexa</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artists Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few days before the fuckery of 3x7 and I will forever ignore the last 10 minutes. 
> 
> So here you are, Happier times, possibilities.
> 
> Set in S3..

Clarke growls, gripping the uneven charcoal pencil almost hard enough to snap it in half.

Clarke has been unsuccessfully trying to capture Lexa on paper. It’s impossible. She can’t get the ridge of her jaw right, or the wiry muscle of her shoulders, or the divot and swell of her collarbone.

It’s not just that Lexa’s lips are always fuller than Clarke makes them on paper, or that her eyes are brighter, deeper. Her essence is always lost in the dark lines because Clarke can’t draw her duplicity; can’t convey that a tilt of Lexas head, or a swallow, is like a fucking symphony of emotions for her.

Clarke refuses to focus on the fact that she can almost draw Lexa from memory. Refuses to consider her emotions for the subject are the reason she is not satisfied with the results.

She's decided that when she looks down at one of her drawings and feels her stomach clench and her jaw tighten, she’ll know the drawing is perfect -- but only then.

Clarke is frustratingly smearing the lines of Lexas hair with an oily fingerprint when a soft rap on the door interrupts her.

“Enter!” She calls absently.

Unexpectedly it is Lexa who slides through the door, Her face clean of war paint, hair unbraided, and feet bare.

“Hi.”

Clarke hops off of her bed in what she hopes doesn’t look like alarm. She flicks her blanket over the unfinished drawing and meets Lexa in the small sitting area.

“Whats going on?” Clarke asks, slightly concerned.

Lexa meets her eyes unflinchingly-- in that way that always says she is sure that Clarke is what she wants, and that she is patient enough to wait indefinitely for her.

“I wanted to be in your presence.” A subtle lift of her jaw, a quick flicker of her gaze to the ground.

She is unsure of her place, nervous.

Clarke is ashamed to be watching her intently enough to recognize that. To make note of the thickness of her lashes, and the shadow hiding in the curve between her full bottom lip and her chin.

“Is that okay?” Lexa asks when Clarke doesn’t respond.

“Of course. This is your castle.”

Clarke sits gingerly in a roughly upholstered chair tucking her legs beneath her.

"It is a request Clarke" Lexa says gently. 

Clarke understands, she is under no obligation to let Lexa stay. She wants her to. "Sit." 

Lexa smiles slightly, the edges of her lips bending, her cheekbones becoming prominent, before her eyelashes flutter and she takes a seat as well. “I believe it was called a skyscraper. I take it you approve?”

Clarke forces herself to gentle her scrutinizing gaze, to stop sketching a mental picture and relax her tense muscles.

“I do, the view is amazing.”

“Did you not have a view in the sky?”

Clarke chuckles, “I guess you could say that. But space is not nearly as majestic.”

“Tell me,” Lexa says softly, Clarke swallows at the endearingly sweet way she asks questions, statements that are requests.

“It’s always dark in space. Black actually. It's not calming like nighttime here, it’s… scary. The dark is endless and if you touch it-- it can consume you.”

Lexa frowns in contemplation, eyelids lowered, head tilted. 

Clarke pulls her gaze away, “The ark was constantly in motion, but whenever our windows passed Earth it looked foreign. This distant muddy ball that was supposed to be larger than we knew how to conceive.” 

Her thoughts drift momentarily, they find the classrooms on the arc, the idealized values that she was meant to pass on to her children's children, never to embody herself. 

“Anyways, you can’t see the trees from that high up. or the grass, or mountains, or sand. You can't make out anything really, it's all just muted color.”

“I’m sorry.” Lexa breathes.

“To go so long confined without the freedom of dirt beneath your feet, the wind against your skin, the warmth of the sun… It sounds--”

“Yeah.” Clarke agrees. It feels good to talk about. It's painful how Lexa understands her so acutely, immediately, intimately... or maybe it hurts because it’s not unexpected or unwelcome and it should be.

It shouldn't be this easy to be with her, not when she _wants_ to hate her. It shouldn't be exhausting struggling to hold on to her anger. 

Clarke has no control over what should or shouldn't be. She can't even control what _is_

“What did you do to pass so much time aboard your ark?”

_Your prison_ is what clarke hears with startling accuracy. 

“Study. Read. Draw.”

Lexa’s answering smile is edgier, more secretive.

“What?” Clarke asks.

“I enjoy reading, but my drawing is--” Lexa searches for the right word before settling on “atrocious.”

Clarke laughs harder than she intended, “I’m sure you’re not bad at anything.”

“You think I’m perfect?”

Clarke doesn’t catch herself in time and her eyes do a quick swipe down the length of Lexa’s body.

Lexa’s smile widens, “I assure you, Clarke, I’m not at all artistic.”

“What do you like to read?” Clarke asks, trying for a dramatic change in subjects.

“Everything.”

Clarke rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “What’s the last book you read?”

“The Iliad.”

Of the things that Clarke expects to hear, a classic isn’t one of them. Especially a classic with that level of language comprehension. She frowns, “Is that why your English is so good?”

Lexa shrugs dismissively, “I’ve studied too.”

Clarke’s lips tug into a reluctant smile, she doesn’t know why it shocks her that Lexa has studied, her intelligence is evident, but picturing her bent over a pile of textbooks, frowning and sucking on her lips in concentration-- that’s something else.

“What’s your favorite book?”

“The Art of War” Lexa answers without hesitation.

“That sounds more like you.”

“How so?” Lexa asks, with slightly lowered lids and a curious head tilt.

“It’s more intellectual. Practical. The philosophy and strategy, at least.” Clarke shrugs, “Makes sense.”

“You’ve read it?”

“Several times.”

Lexa smiles again, they are becoming more frequent. “You never cease to impress me, Clarke.” She doesn’t avert her gaze or seem the least bit afraid to say, “You’re special.”

Clarke’s heart bangs against its constraints, and she tries to keep her breathing even so Lexa doesn’t notice. Tries not to look at Lexa’s lips, or remember how gently she kissed her.

Instead, she pictures Heda at the mouth of Mount whether, paint and blood smearing her face, her steely gaze unreadable, her hands casually gripping her sword. 

_The living are hungry, Clarke._

But the image doesn’t stay. It expands until Clarke can see the pain in her eyes, the fear, the vulnerability--the weight of her burden. And it's not quite the same, but it's a weight they share.

“Would you like me to leave so you can get back to your drawing?”

Clarke snaps out of her daydream. “How did you--”

“There is charcoal on your fingers. I assumed you’ve been making use of the supplies I left you.”

“Yes.”

Lexa nods softly and stands.

Clarke springs to her feet and reaches a hand out before she can stop herself, “I mean Yes, I’ve been drawing. No, I don’t want you to leave.”

Clarke doesn’t remove her hand from Lexa’s wrist and that only means that she can feel her pulse beneath the silk of her skin.

“Okay,” Lexa breathes.

Neither of them move.

Clarke’s gaze flickers from Lexa’s eyes to her lips too many times to count. If Lexa kissed her right now, she wouldn’t stop her. 

Clarke knows that she won't. Lexa is patient and unwavering in her affection. She always has been. So even if there wasn't a mountain between them Lexa would respect her space. She would honor her 'not yet'. 

So if Clarke is ready, she will have to admit it. She will have to initiate it. 

Clarke severs their contact, removes her hand and averts her eyes. She’s surprised by how much she wants to break down and just admit that she’s afraid, but just because she recognizes the emotion, doesn't mean she can pinpoint it's cause. 

They both take a seat, this time sharing the small sofa.

“Tell me something.” Clarke implores.

“What would you like to know?”

“Anything.”

Lexa frowns, “There is no place to start.”

“How about your favorite place to go?”

She gives a curt nod, “I’ll take you there tomorrow.”

Clarke grins, “Your ability to evade questions is impressive.”

Lexa ducks her head slightly, and a bundle of soft thick curls obscure her face momentarily.

“It is a clearing in the forest, there is a large tree and-- My description wouldn’t do it justice. I can take you there, if you’d like to see it.”

Clarke nods her consent “I would.”

Lexas bestows her with a smile small, and Clarke realizes she has begun to think of them as rewards. 

"Clarke-" Lexa begins unsteadily, eyebrows slightly lowered, "Is the concept of floating yourself a reference to gravity?"

There is no stopping or curbing Clarke's laughter. She can't even bring herself to regret telling Lexa to float herself because she doesn't want to be robbed of this moment. 

They talk through the night. Pressed into each others side, casual touches accidental and heated.

When the sky turns into a watercolor painting bleeding purple and pink, with orange licking at its edges, they watch the sun rise together too.

Clarke tries to enjoy the serenity of the moment. To Immerse herself in the way the warm breeze washes gently over her face and lifts her hair. The way the shadows melt away uncovering the town beneath them.

But she can feel Lexas proximity, and smell the honey scent clinging to her skin, and her heart gallops without her permission. She has to close her eyes against the wants flooding her vision. Against the need to touch Lexa's skin and follow the contours of her body, to stroke the warmth of her mouth, and--

_I needed someone, but I wanted it to be you._

Clarke wants her. But that’s not enough. She has to be sure that she is ready to keep her.

** 

Clarke wakes mid afternoon in her room alone. She is curled up on her couch with a soft animal fur covering her.

Candles are still flickering gently and it drives Clarke crazy. They didn't have candles on the ark but simple chemistry and math cannot explain the seemingly infinite life span of the candles in Polis.

After she bathes and dresses she seeks out Lexa.

Heda is sitting upon her throne, her face stony as guards hold down a gagged and kneeling man in front of her. Clarke can’t make out the low spoken trigedasleng before the man is hefted to his feet and dragged past her and out of the room.

“Wanheda.” Lexa acknowledges.

Clarke gives a nod, and then remembers they are in public, “Commander.”

Lexa rises from her throne to help close the distance between her them. Lexa’s coat whooshes around her body, fluttering behind her and exposing the curves of her thighs, and the rock of her hips.

The two guards step from behind her throne and advance a few paces as well.

Immediately annoyed Lexa raises a hand and barks “Leave us.” 

Her personal guards, and the Warriors stationed at the door all immediately turn and exit the room .

“What was that all about?” Clarke asks.

Lexa uses another hand gesture, a dismissive wave, “Petty bickering.”

This isn’t the first time Clarke notices the change but it is no less startling, Lexa’s face transforms and her voice turns to liquid. “Have you eaten?” She asks softly.

“Yes,” Clarke says. Then she wishes she lied because Lexa looks disappointed. Did she want to eat together?

“What would you like to do today?”

“Anything?” Clarke asks. 

Lexa nods.

“Can we just hang out?”

“Hang out?”

“Be in each other's presence.”

“You want to spend the entirety of the day with me?” Lexas eyes sparkle and a smile breaks through the surprise on her face.

“May I show you my favorite place now?”

**  


Lexa was right, her description could not have done the clearing justice. Behind a thick line of trees and uneven ground, the clearing is a paradise.

The soft green grass bends under their feet as they climb the delicate hill towards the singular large tree sitting on top of it.

Hanging from the tree by thick rope is a bench carved out of dark wood and sanded smooth.  
Clarke’s face lights up when she sees it and she bounds up the last few feet of the hill.

“There’s a swing!?” she says, sliding into it a little too excitedly.

Lexa is just behind her and they both fit on the swing with room to spare. Clarke kicks off the ground sending them into a soothing sway.

“This is incredible.” She sighs.

Lexa smiles again, and Clarke can actually see teeth this time. Lexas beauty is mesmerizing.

Lexa directs her attention to the distance, and with a long finger points to several cabins, “Our finest craftsman lives there. He is the most talented, he built a quite impressive home, as well as most of the intricate carvings you find in the tower.”

“And this bench?”

“Yes. It was a fallen tree. It was burned purposely to expose the beauty beneith the bark --”

Truthfully, Clarke spaces out listening to Lexa’s voice. She contemplates life in Polis and how she fits in. She wonders about Lexa’s commitments as commander, her duty to her people, and Clarke's duty to hers. It's not just who they are but what they are that forbids them from doing anything casual.and if Clarke is honest she doesn't want casual anyways. 

But there are other issues. Could Clarke stay in Polis indefinitely? Could she travel between here and Arcadia? Could she live without Lexa now that she has her?

Clarke empties her lungs, “Lexa?”

She doesn't know what she was going to say, but it becomes irrelevant when Lexa's eyes immediately shift to hers. Clarke doesn’t fight the heat that hollows her stomach or the studder of her heart

Clarke closes the small space between them slowly. She doesn’t know how Lexa had the courage to do this the first time because she is terrified, and desperate, and nervous all at once.

She holds Lexa’s eyes, making her intent clear. With a delicate tilt of her head their lips meet. Clarke tries to keep the kiss sweet and soft to convey “Yes, she feels it too" and "now, she is ready to drown in it", but after a couple swipes of her tongue and the softest groan, she can hear the wetness of their kiss, so she introduces her teeth and her hands.

Clarke keeps their progress slow but it’s also so charged with emotion that her body betrays her. She can’t catch her breath, or slow her heart, or stop the flood of need that spreads from where Lexa is holding her.

The commander is letting her take the lead. Not pressuring or assuming. And Clarke finds that she wants to be aggressive, wants to push Lexa down onto the grass and spread her wide .

Clarke shivers from her own imagery. 

When they break apart Clarke takes advantage of their proximity by running her fingertips over the smooth swell of Lexas cheek and following the curve of her eyebrow down to her temple.

She will be able to draw Lexa now, Clarke thinks with a small smile.

“Clarke?” Lexa breathes.

“I want to spend the day like this.” Clarke says equally as soft.

Lexa’s eyes flutter open and their bright depths touch Clarke’s.

“And tomorrow?” Lexa asks. Unsure, unassuming. Even now.

“Tomorrow I want to draw you... But we can do this too.”

Lexa’s smile is gentle. She leans into Clarke this time, kissing her softly. Letting their noses rub as she changes angles to tease and lap at her mouth.

Clarke basks in the moment, in this rare piece of respite and freedom.

She feels like she is flying, and right now, she feels safe enough that she is not worried about falling down.

**Author's Note:**

> Round of applause for Everyone who read this before it was even roughly edited, yall are the real MVPs!
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr:IshipBadAssChicks


End file.
